I Was the Perfect Parent. Until I Wasn’t. (Punchier, sarcastic 2-min version

I never knew I wanted to be a parent.
It wasn’t some deep longing. More like… buying a Himalayan salt lamp.
Looks cute. Might help the vibes. Also might explode if used wrong.

But then—bam—my partner and I were “ready.”
Universe aligned. Sperm met egg. IKEA crib bought. Game on.

And boy, did I commit. I was Superdad.
Worked from home for four years. Not for the flexibility—no, no.
For the privilege of changing diapers during Zoom calls.

Every birthday had a theme. Not one cake—oh no—three-tier extravaganzas with sidekick cake pops.
Playdates had homemade pasta. Macarons at the school fair. Mason jars, people.
She wasn’t playing, she was catering a food blog.

I didn’t just attend her school functions—I participated.
Loudly. Sometimes in costume. Occasionally in public shame.

And then somewhere, between the sprinkle cupcakes and gluten-free guilt...
I mutated.

From “cool, involved dad” to “walking, talking performance review.”
“Great effort, but let’s circle back on the messy room?”

She trained at 5:30 AM. Four years. No medals.
Not one sad sticker shaped like a star.
Then—boom—eighth grade. She wins three. I cry. Not out loud. Just... in the inside of my skull.

And yet, even now, I struggle to say, “I’m proud.”
Not because I’m not.
But because I want it to really land. Like a compliment from Simon Cowell.

I expect everything from her. Grace, grit, hydration, clean socks.
And sometimes… I forget to give her me.

So maybe tomorrow, we skip the feedback form.
Just pancakes. And a hug.

Because in the end, she didn’t need Yoda.
She just needed me—minus the spreadsheet.